


𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨 🁡 𝐵𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑

by Adrenalineshots, sonshineandshowers, TheFibreWitch



Series: Domino 🁡 [37]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Depression, Digital Art, Disassociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hallucinations, Harassment, Health Emergency, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Identity, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mental Health Issues, Metafiction, Mpreg, Murder Mystery, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Pregnancy Bedrest, Preterm Birth, Surrealism, Trauma, Unreliable Narrator, Video, a lot of really strange stuff that happens in altered states of consciousness, anxiousness, reader-driven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:20:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26505046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrenalineshots/pseuds/Adrenalineshots, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFibreWitch/pseuds/TheFibreWitch
Summary: Selecting 𝐵𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑 from the bookshelf, Malcolm travels through his own mind.Read this story at:https://www.thedominostory.com/#bloodchildThis book is one part of the Domino series. If you have not yet read thePrefaceorIntroduction, please head there first.
Series: Domino 🁡 [37]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1926451
Collections: Domino 🁡, Prodigal Son Big Bang 2020 - Saturday Posts





	𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨 🁡 𝐵𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jameena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameena/gifts), [MissScorp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScorp/gifts), [ProcrastinatingSab](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProcrastinatingSab/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Bloodchild](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/685387) by Octavia E. Butler. 



> This book is one part of the Domino series. If you have not yet read the [Preface](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64577434#workskin) or [Introduction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64588537#workskin), please head there first.
> 
> Betaed by the wonderful [Jameena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameena/), [MissScorp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScorp/), and [ProcrastinatingSab](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProcrastinatingSab/).
> 
> Credit to the creators and their works that inspired and were referenced in this work:  
>  **— Inspiration:**[Bloodchild](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bloodchild_and_Other_Stories) \- Octavia E. Butler  
>  **— Cover Song:**[Space Oddity](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iYYRH4apXDo) \- David Bowie  
>  **— Assets:**[Stock Photo](https://depositphotos.com/4230102/stock-photo-picture-of-a-baby-in.html)

[](https://www.thedominostory.com/images/full/bloodchild.jpg) |   
---|---  
  
“About ten more weeks now,” a voice says.

Isn’t it six more weeks of winter? It’s been a long, cold winter and Malcolm’s at a loss for how it could go on any more. It’s a tale anyway — there’s always six more weeks regardless of what the groundhog says.

“You’ll need to keep up with your bedrest, Mr. Bright.”

He got hurt again? There doesn’t seem to be pain throbbing in his frame, not even a hint of it hiding underneath the boxes he stashes it in when he lies that he’s fine. Pricks and twinges don’t exist, only mellowed, numb, okay.

“We’ll see you next time.”

The whole world is a haze of concepts that fly over his head, whooshing past his ears faster than he can comprehend. He’s back to his loft and up the stairs before he realizes he’s in a different setting — sitting up in his bed. There’s a pillow under his feet and pillow mountain at his back, a whole plush cocoon keeping him in bed.

“How are my two favorite people today?” Gil asks, appearing beside him with a cup of tea.

Two? Who else was there?

“Bright?”

He’s missing so much time. Gripping the sheets beside him as if they’ll hold him in the present, Malcolm’s hand collides with his stomach much sooner than he expects. He’s missing time, he’s missing — about thirty weeks, to be exact. Recoiling into the headboard, his breaths stutter, his air escaping as fast as his thoughts into the ether.

The silence draws him in, and he curls up under a blanket of depression that shields him from the rest of the world. It’s impermeable, even the air recycling as he cowers in desperation.

“What’ll you name him?” a voice says.

Who? Malcolm’s happy with Bright — it took him years to feel comfortable enough to tell his mother he was going to make the change legally. She’d scoffed and looked at him in derision, not understanding his need for distance. He wasn’t about to embark on another painful journey. He’s happy, moderately happy at least — he doesn’t need to mess with that.

“The next Whitly needs a strong name.”

No more Whitly’s. The last could die with his father. His mother and sister might still use the name, but he prefers to remember them as family instead. Whitly has too many terrible memories — it’s more than a man, it’s also the brand.

“How about Martin?”

A hand connects with Malcolm’s stomach and he yelps.

“It’s okay, kid,” Gil says. “You dropped these.” He holds out a set of ultrasound photos.

Malcolm glances over the pictures showing intricate details. The baby’s ready to do their own cesarean, knife in hand, poised to make the first slice. The picture swims in embryonic fluid, the knife cresting on the waves. Something pounds into his side and he winces.

“Should I call the doctor? You seem to be in a lot of pain.” Gil brushes his hair back from his forehead, rubs the base of his neck.

The stabbing pain in his side continues, the plunging blade working its way out. Butchered from the inside, his thoughts fade.

“Malcolm, is it your baby kicking?” Gil asks. “Or another pain?”

His baby? Malcolm Bright doesn’t have babies, doesn’t procreate to provide his father with more impressionable family, doesn’t risk a child coming into this world having to deal with his impediments. Malcolm Bright just… doesn’t. The blanket takes him back, deeper than he’s gone before to a place souls don’t come out of. A hermetically sealed haven that keeps anything else from being injected into his life.

“I’d really like to see them,” a voice says.

Malcolm doesn’t want to see anyone. His days of receiving visitors are long past with thoughts of ever having a life resembling normal. The weight of the blanket hurts, nearly crushing him, anchoring him to the floor instead of providing shelter. At this rate, if it keeps going, he’s not sure he’ll be able to breathe.

“He’s my son — I need to see my son.”

Dr. Whitly can go to hell. He lost the right to call him his son years ago, his abuse overshadowing any positive role as a parent. Whatever he wants, he can fuck off.

“Please, he’s all I have. I need to see him.”

Dr. Whitly probably should have thought of that before killing 23 people. Or however many the count is up to these days, the true count likely going to the grave with him.

“Malcolm, I’m here,” Gil says, his hand clutching his shoulder. “You’re in the hospital — I know it must be scary right now, but everything’s gonna be okay.”

Malcolm rolls into Gil’s chest, seeking the safety he promises. His mind’s awash with fragments, nothing connecting to build the full piece.

“Your baby’s in the NICU. Early and small, so they’re keeping an eye out on breathing.”

Malcolm’s missing more time, unaware what Gil’s talking about, confused why his stomach is rounded out in his gown, numbed by whatever’s dripping into his veins. “Get this outta me,” Malcolm says, ripping at the IV.

His coordination is off, and he only manages to grasp at the air instead of the line, leaving Gil room to press his hand over the site and block Malcolm’s access. “Kid, you need this,” Gil urges, his free hand rubbing at the back of Malcolm’s neck.

Malcolm needs more medicine like a hole in the head. He needs clear thoughts to figure out what Dr. Whitly’s up to, to get himself home instead of trapped in these hospital walls, even the curtain trying to close in on him.

“You need to heal for your baby,” Gil says. “Don’t you want to be able to walk to see them? You need to rest.”

There is no world where Malcolm has a baby. It’s some maniacal prank someone’s devised to lay claim on his thoughts, his reality. He’s a host animal — they want him to succumb to his delusions so he loses his grasp on the present, drifts off into a place he’ll never return from. A place where Malcolm Bright has children.

Gil holds up a picture, and the baby’s face looks just like his father’s as a baby. Has the same blue, glinting eyes. And a name tag that lists Martin Whitly.

— ◌◯◌ —

The trips they’ve made back and forth to CSU are innumerable. JT makes his way to his desk to share the latest update with Dani. If nothing else, he’s gotten his exercise. “There was a note inside one of the books.”

“Which one?” Dani asks, looking up from her computer.

“One of the A. S. Harper ones.”

“From the author?”

“From Gary.”

Dani gives him a puzzled look. “Who’s Gary?”

JT shakes his head and consults the paper in his hands. “Mʏ ʟᴀsᴛ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛs, ᴡɪᴛʜ ʟᴏᴠᴇ, Gᴀʀʏ.”

“With love a relationship or with love a friend…”

“There’s nothing in the house to indicate she spent time with either of those types of people.” There were no signs of anyone in that house besides Veronica. He’s fairly certain even he had more traces of life in his apartment in his bachelor days, hell, on his person right now, two photos of Tally wedged into his wallet.

“You can’t be Veronica and not spend time with someone.”

He can’t argue that the woman wasn’t outgoing. There just weren’t many signs of it in her house. “Gotta be someone she works with.”

“No Gary on the list.”

“Guarantee you she works with him.”

“When was it published?”

“2019.”

“Have them look through — “

JT’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he holds his hand up to wait. “Detective Tarmel,” he answers.

“Another padded envelope arrived at Ms. Sogni’s front door,” the uni on the line says. “CSU is bringing it in now.”

He’d requested a car stationed out front in case anyone tried to return to the scene. “Anything else?”

“No. It’s book-sized. A Goodman listed on the return address.”

“Alright, we’ve got it from here. Thank you — good work.”

“Special delivery?” Dani asks.

Something like that. A connection from Veronica’s house to the outside. A way into her private sanctuary that didn’t need to sign in like the rest of the visitors to Sea Gate.

A vector.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Head back to the [Bookshelf](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64588570#workskin) to pick another book. :)


End file.
